When I was your age

by Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards

As to Flossy’s talent for making paper-dolls, it is a thing not to be described. There were no such paper-dolls as those. Their figures might not be exactly like the human figure, but how infinitely more graceful! Their waists were so small that they sometimes broke in two when called upon to courtesy to a partner or a queen: that was the height of delicacy! They had ringlets invariably, and very large eyes with amazing lashes; they smiled with unchanging sweetness, filling our hearts with delight. Many and wonderful were their dresses. The crinoline of the day was magnified into a sort of vast semi-circular cloud, adorned about the skirt with strange patterns; one small doll would sometimes wear a whole sheet of foolscap in an evening dress! That was extravagant, but our daughters must be in the fashion. There was one yellow dress belonging to my doll Parthenia (a lovely creature of Jewish aspect, whose waist was smaller than her legs), which is not even now to be remembered without emotion. We built houses for the paper-dolls with books from the parlor table, even borrowing some from the bookcase when we wanted an extra suite of rooms. I do not say it was good for the books, but it was very convenient for the dolls. I have reason to think that our mother did not know of this practice. In the matter of their taking exercise, however, she aided us materially, giving us sundry empty trinket-boxes lined with satin, which made the most charming carriages in the world. The state coach was a silver-gilt portemonnaie lined with red silk. It had seen better days, and the clasp was broken; but that did not make it less available as a coach. I wish you could have seen Parthenia in it!

I do not think we cared so much for other dolls, yet there were some that must be mentioned. Vashti Ann was named for a cook; she belonged to Julia, and I have an idea that she was of a very haughty and disagreeable temper, though I cannot remember her personal appearance. Still more shadowy is my recollection of Eliza Viddipock,—a name to be spoken with bated breath. What dark crime this wretched doll had committed to merit her fearful fate, I do not know; it was a thing not to be spoken of to the younger children, apparently. But I do know that she was hanged, with all solemnity of judge and hangman. It seems unjust that I should have forgotten the name of Julia’s good doll, who died, and had the cover of the sugar-bowl buried with her, as a tribute to her virtues.

Sally Bradford and Clara both belonged to Laura. Sally was an india-rubber doll; Clara, a doll with a china head of the old-fashioned kind, smooth, shining black hair, brilliant rosy cheeks, and calm (very calm) blue eyes. I prefer this kind of doll to any other. Clara’s life was an uneventful one, on the whole, and I remember only one remarkable thing in it. A little girl in the neighborhood invited Laura to a dolls’ party on a certain day: she was to bring Clara by special request. Great was the excitement, for Laura was very small, and had never yet gone to a party. A seamstress was in the house making the summer dresses, and our mother said that Clara should have a new frock for the party. It seemed a very wonderful thing to have a real new white muslin frock, made by a real seamstress, for one’s beloved doll. Clara had a beautiful white neck, so the frock was made low and trimmed with lace. When the afternoon came, Laura brought some tiny yellow roses from the greenhouse, and the seamstress sewed them on down the front of the frock and round the neck and hem. It is not probable that any other doll ever looked so beautiful as Clara when her toilet was complete.

Then Laura put on her own best frock, which was not one half so fine, and tied on her gray felt bonnet, trimmed with quillings of pink and green satin ribbon, and started off, the proudest and happiest child in the whole world. She reached the house (it was very near) and climbed up the long flight of stone steps, and stood on tiptoe to ring the bell,—then waited with a beating heart. Would there be many other dolls? Would any of them be half so lovely as Clara? Would there—dreadful thought!—would there be big girls there?

The door opened. If any little girls read this they will now be very sorry for Laura. There was no dolls’ party! Rosy’s mother (the little girl’s name was Rosy) had heard nothing at all about it; Rosy had gone to spend the afternoon with Sarah Crocker.

“Sorry, little girl! What a pretty dolly! Good-by, dear!” and then the door was shut again.

Laura toddled down the long stone steps, and went solemnly home. She did not cry, because it would not be nice to cry in the street; but she could not see very clearly. She never went to visit Rosy again, and never knew whether the dolls’ party had been forgotten, or why it was given up.

Before leaving the subject of dolls, I must say a word about little Maud’s first doll. Maud was a child of rare beauty, as beautiful as Julia, though very different. Her fair hair was of such color and quality that our mother used to call her Silk-and-silver, a name which suited her well; her eyes were like stars under their long black lashes. So brilliant, so vivid was the child’s coloring that she seemed to flash with silver and rosy light as she moved about. She was so much younger than the others that in many of their reminiscences she has no share; yet she has her own stories, too. A friend of our father’s, being much impressed with this starry beauty of the child, thought it would be pleasant to give her the prettiest doll that could be found; accordingly he appeared one day bringing a wonderful creature, with hair almost like Maud’s own, and great blue eyes that opened and shut, and cheeks whose steadfast roses did not flash in and out, but bloomed always. I think the doll was dressed in blue and silver, but am not sure; she was certainly very magnificent.

Maud was enchanted, of course, and hugged her treasure, and went off with it. It happened that she had been taken only the day before to see the blind children at the Institution near by, where our father spent much of his time. It was the first time she had talked with the little blind girls, and they made a deep impression on her baby mind, though she said little at the time. As I said, she went off with her new doll, and no one saw her for some time. At length she returned, flushed and triumphant.

“My dolly is blind, now!” she cried; and she displayed the doll, over whose eyes she had tied a ribbon, in imitation of Laura Bridgman. “She is blind Polly! ain’t got no eyes ’t all!”